


Of Natural Occurrence

by Shinybug



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normal is relative, and overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Natural Occurrence

**Author's Note:**

> Written early in the series, back when things were simpler.

*~*~*~*

In Ardmore, Oklahoma, Sam realizes that this is it, that what he has is everything, is all. His days begin and end with Dean, the car, the road, and the feel of a shotgun in his hands is just as necessary and normal as the bitter-salt taste of Dean's come in the back of his throat. The days have, in fact, run together into weeks, months have somehow become years, and the cities all have the same downtown silhouette on the horizon at sunset.

When he wakes in the mornings, Dean's mouth pressed to his ear or his neck or his stomach, breath hot and hands searching beneath cheap, low thread count sheets, it's the way it should be, because it's normal. And Sam has always wanted normal, always, hasn't he?

Patterns create normalcy, even patterns that inherently wear away the lining of your stomach, Sam rationalizes, like hot afternoons cleaning weapons with your brother while the motel door stands wide open to let in the few threads of wind, the scent of gun oil and semen on your hands when you wipe the sweat from your brow. The way he watches you, with his eyes shuttered, all sex and gravity, before tossing aside his sharpened Bowie with negligence that would have made Dad shout, and pressing you back into your chair, kissing the breath from your lungs in a way that doesn't promise you'll get it back.

Any motel room, anywhere. Another ghost, another unexplained death, another illicit fuck that feels just as wrong as it does right.

But it's Ardmore, Oklahoma when he recognizes it. It's Ardmore, in another cheap motel room, and the only thing that distinguishes it from any other is the blue shag carpet. Sam doesn't think he's ever slept in a room with blue shag before, he ponders, feet on the floor as he sits on the edge of the bed, watching his toes disappear between freshly raked tufts of Cookie Monster blue, while Dean, kneeling behind him, tongues a line down the nape of his neck.

"Huh," Sam says softly, and Dean takes it for an exhalation of pleasure and asks, "Like that?"

Sam makes another noise and Dean uses his teeth in little nips, slowly following the line of Sam's vertebrae, and while the part of Sam that is male and always ready for sex responds to his brother's mouth, as it always does and has, Sam's mind trails off on blue shag and brown Berber and gray cut-pile. He tracks back through the years, the rooms, the roads, the skin-on-skin, the guns in his hands, the grave-dirt beneath his fingernails, the wind whipping across them both through the Impala's open windows.

This is it. This is all he'll ever have.

He can't complain about it, because it's what he asked for all those years ago. Since he was born. He wanted normal. And this may not be normal by anyone else’s rules but theirs, but it’s what they’ve always done. Normal, Sam understands now, (an epiphany while Dean's hand reaches around to grip his cock, drawing the pleasure and pain up through his skin like a well-pump), is relative.

 _Normal, adjective, serving to establish a standard, of natural occurrence._

When Dean's hands have manipulated him like a potter shaping warm clay, into curves of submission, arches of receptivity, urging him onto his stomach on the bed, Sam thinks again of that carpet. He rises up, out from under Dean, whose lips are beginning to form a startled question but trail off at the look on Sam's face. Sam takes Dean by the back of the neck, holds him there for a moment with his thumb and forefinger bracing arterial pulses while Dean's eyes blaze in confusion, wariness, and not a little surprise, but immobile as a cat caught by the scruff.

Sam studies his brother's face, the clean arch of his throat, the compact stretch of pectoral muscles, the lean hollow of hip and haunch, the twitching cock. Dean's pulse beats faster beneath Sam's fingers, and Sam smiles to feel it. Dean's mouth is tense until Sam bites it open, using his tongue to release the breath Dean's been holding, inhaling it and not giving it back, until Dean is whimpering and trembling within the fragile hold of Sam's hand.

Afterward, after leaving his brother sprawled sideways across the bed, after Sam's cock has learned the textures and slick heat of Dean's ass, after his ears have discovered the new sounds Dean can make when he's pushed past the edge of good and bad, after his tongue has mapped the dark taste of fragile skin that will never see sunlight, after his fingers have tested just how far Dean can bend before he breaks. After.

Sam plants his feet on blue shag and walks to the bathroom. He stands at the sink and washes his hands, his face, his cock, smells Dean all over him like campfire smoke, the way it clings and invades. He leans in the doorway and watches Dean, lying there like something struggling for life, still catching his breath. Dean's mouth is a smear of red and his eyes are glazed, and his sweaty skin sparkles like bits of broken glass. His fingers twitch around the fistfuls of white sheets. He looks uncomfortable, uncertain, boneless.

"That was...new," Dean says, with a voice like gravel, like road rash.

"Yeah," Sam replies, and his cock twitches lightly. Normal is relative, and overrated.

~end~


End file.
